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If I had tried to write this blog a few days ago. Well. Suffice it to say that when everyone else is annoying, it really is nothing to do with anyone else but me. Perspective and time have taken the edge off the strongest of the emotions, along with a strangely calming session of acupuncture on my tender calves. So here goes…

It was to be my third Two Bays 28km Trail Run. My first, in 2013, was an adventure, the longest distance I’d ever run, and magical in the way that all new adventures are. In 2015, I was unprepared, sucked into entering by a Facebook demon, whereupon I went for a 20k training run to prove to myself that December was not too late to begin training (it was), jumped into my pool overheated and fully clothed and wearing my (now dead) iPhone in a running belt. I completed the 28k run that year in 3:09, grimacing in pain as my feet and calves cramped from about 22k, all the way through to the finish line.

2018 was about redemption. And intelligence.

I had learned much since I began. Trained and completed many arduous events. I was going to do it right this time. I began training in September, plotting out a plan that would see me strongly through the holidays, to peak at just the right time. There were soccer weekends away I had to account for, there was the Marysville Half-Marathon smack bang in the middle of my plan, and there was, of course, the mayhem of Christmas with two young children.

I won’t give you the details of the plan- it would be boring, and my plan is not your plan. I’m a 52-year-old woman who loves to cross-train, teaches Bodypump and swims twice a week. I’ve also got floaters in both eyes (this means grey shadows that at times block a lot of my visual field, and make technical terrain a whole lot more hit-and-miss). So what I do is probably not what you’d want to, need to, or should do.

In a nutshell though, my plan was to fight against cramping by training on hills and over the full race distance. In the Dandenongs, I managed three 28km runs, and on 25km run that lasted over four hours due to the elevation gain. Here is a selection of training run photos – that’s the joy of training for long distance events – the magic of the trails happens a lot more often.

I also trained for flatter and faster, down on the Surfcoast Trail, mainly because we were in Ocean Grove for the two weeks prior to Two Bays. I was nervous but more confident at the end of training than any year prior. I did lots of tempo and interval runs as well, but swapped out some distance for swimming and weight training, averaging about 50k for many of the weeks.

Yes, I had trained well. Physically, I was ready.

However, I’d forgotten about the other big issue in my life: stress. One of my children has some severe developmental/behavioural challenges. Sometimes things are kind of ok; sometimes they are a tsunami of a nightmare. The day before Two Bays – well, the month before, to be honest – was a tsunami time. Lots happened, but the peak of it was Saturday, the day before Two Bays, when a soccer ball was kicked, as hard as possible, straight at me and into my knee and upper thigh, by my child. To say it hurt is silly. That does nothing to explain the pain of what felt like a conscious attack by someone I love most in the world. I screamed in pain, shouted words I won’t repeat here, and lost it completely for the rest of the day. My world was black and ending and everything I had done to this point in my life had been an utter and complete mistake.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. At all. Not pre-race insomnia. Not like usual. This was stare-at-the-ceiling-and-evaluate-my-life awfulness. I was almost grateful when our dog went nuts at 4 am, as I was awake anyway. I was up and dressed by 4:30, driving off in the dead of night by 5.

The darkness was a blanket, and the drizzle felt appropriate and grey.

I was not tired; I was too nervous driving to be tired, as I had a new navigator in my car that I was unsure of. It coached me for the hour’s drive, most of which I knew well, and told me where to get off the road for Permien Street, Dromana. Except this was not the exit I knew. The navigator said turn left, and I said where?, and turned in the wrong place and got immediately lost in some strange suburb. The horror of it. Alone. In the dark. Trying desperately to get to the race headquarters for six am. I was breathing fast and my hands were gripping the steering wheel in a death-grip.

I pulled back on the highway, thinking I was heading the right way, but the next exit was not Dromana, it was Rosebud. It was like one of those nightmares where things get worse and worse. I drove on, finally letting the navigator have the wheel, afraid I’d be routed to Sorrento and back.

Imagine – just imagine! – my relief when I recognised the road. It was the road I knew from the Two Bays Run, the one we run up right at the start. In fact, the race crew was out putting up event signs as I drove downhill, elated, knowing where I was.

Now, perhaps this doesn’t seem the most auspicious start to a trail run requiring some navigation. But I forgot about it immediately after I parked. I got out of my car, caught my breath, and gazed at the bay. It required my presence more than race headquarters. I made my way there and stared at the still waters. Waters that I wished I could be more like.

Still waters

I turned away: there was a race to be run, regardless of how I was feeling. I knew, as well, the quickest way out of the quicksand of dark emotions: it was a trail, running full pelt for hours and hours and hours.

Sunrise above Arthur’s Seat, Dromana

The time prior to a race is always the same. Joy at seeing friends, nerves at what we’re about to do, general restlessness and preparation of my gear. I saw Andrea and shared a quick hello, but quickly lost her in the crowd. Found some fellow Dandenong Trail Runners and had a short chat. Did some warm-up jogging.

I noted that I wasn’t afraid. It was odd, as the first time I’d run this race, I’d been terrified, felt completely out-of-place and overwhelmed by the lean athletes surrounding me. That was something, anyway, that quiet confidence, even though the weight of doom regarding my family life hung heavy.

We lined up in the starting chute. All was ready. I took a quick photo to remember the moment, checked that my Garmin was ready to go.

Ready to go!

The crowd of us runners were so noisy, I couldn’t hear the countdown, and only knew to begin when the runners in front of me started moving forward. We were off!

The race begins uphill on a road. I love uphills; I eat hills for breakfast. I found myself dodging around other runners, powering up the hill. I was elated; this felt easy. The Dandenongs hill training was really helping. In no time, in much shorter time than I recalled in other years, we were at the trail head at Bunurong Track, forming a single line of runners to work our way up Arthur’s Seat.

Up and up and up we went, on the widish dirt trail. It was punctuated with stone steps and riddled with tree roots and rocks. We played hopscotch with one another, sometimes passing, sometimes being passed. I knew this terrain well from training runs, and let the memories play over of talks I’d shared with friends about music and piano, about kids and grandkids. I glanced now and again at the blueness of the bay, being sure to immerse myself in this magical landscape, all the while trying not to trip over my own two feet or the many roots and rocks that wanted me down.

That bit about other people being annoying? Yep. It began here. And it wasn’t them. It was one-hundred percent me, and my aggro mood. Still. There was the runner who ran with elbows out, who seemed magnetically drawn to me, who seemed to find the exact line I was aiming for on the steep, slippery gravel, and then ran at the same pace as me. If I sped up, she sped up; slowed, she slowed. It would have been comical if I weren’t clenching my teeth and swearing in my head so loudly. We didn’t crash, amazingly, and I didn’t say a word of what was going on in my head.

Soon, we were down by McLaren’s Dam, and I was too busy watching for snakes to wonder about any of the other runners (though by a video posted the next day, I would have been better watching for kangaroos trying to cross the path).

We ran along some suburban roads, then onto a section that had been full of thigh-high grass several weeks before. It had been mown and was no longer a terror-filled snake pit! There were dozens of happy, smiling, dressed-up volunteers, children to high-five, and a lot of passing and being passed by the same runners, some polite, some not so much, and before I knew it we were in the Greens Bush Section, a wonder world of beauty and nature.

Happy on the trail. Photo courtesy of Supersport Images.

Oh, but here was another one of those irritating other people! This time it was someone behind me, and the tinny sound of their iPhone music, played loud without ear phones. I could not believe it. I had hungered for the peace of the bush, the sounds of nature, even the hush of the footfalls of runners. Instead, I heard Emimem, angry, volatile, judgmental: You better lose yourself in the music, the moment, you better never let it go go, you only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow cause opportunity comes one in a lifetime…

I love this song. I’ve played it hundreds of times teaching Bodypump, I’ve run to it, cycled to it, cried to it. However, in that moment, in Two Bays, in Greens Bush, I hated it. I wanted to grab the offender’s music device and smash it on a rock. I wanted to smash him on a rock. I wanted to run faster or slower or grab a helicopter out because I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t get away, though, bolting forward or slowing down. He played the music loudly and chatted even louder to his friend. Finally, I called out behind me: could you please turn the music down mate?

Me! I said that. Like an angry fishwife.

Please, fellow runner, accept my apology, and thank you for not responding out loud, and for simply turning down the music. It wasn’t you; it was me.

Phew. The dragon had reared its head. I took a deep breath and ran on.

Getting a bit technical. Photo courtesy of Supersport Images.

This is where the run got tricky. I was fit and fast and I could run the uphills without any issue. But when the trail turned technical and dark and downhill, I was doomed. I simply couldn’t see well enough to run fast, and I got passed by every runner and their dog (if dogs were allowed) and I began to wallow in the woe-is-me-I’m-so-slow-and-old-and-blind pit. I let people by and passed them again on the uphills. I fought hard to keep a place in the tribe of trail runners but I felt I was losing it, losing the joy and the ability to do this thing I had loved for so long. I swiped at my eyes, and swallowed hard.

Then my foot began to cramp. I gobbled down some gel, a few salt tablets, and consoled myself with the fact that we were already at 20km. A fast girl ran past me and assured me we were nearly home, and I bit back the words I don’t want to go home, and ran on.

I’d planned to bolt at 23, to really race the last five to the finish. That didn’t happen. Instead, I kept my foot on the brake, trying to hold off the impending cramps, and instead focusing on the breathtaking views of the other side of the bay that appeared. Some high-fives for children, and soon the finish arch was in sight. Past me at speed ran three other runners; I did not chase. I ran across my own finish line in 3:06, which I thought was three minutes slower than my target from 2015, but in fact was a PB for this course.

Afterwards, I stared at the views of the bay, elated, sad, happy, tired, but no longer in that dark place from which I’d started.

When my friend Cissy invited me to join her group of friends for lunch, something I’d usually avoid because I’m shy around strangers, I decided it was time to try something new. Even though I couldn’t get phone reception and I was alone and had to navigate somewhere I’d never been before I went.

Even when the outside of the place looked odd and like an industrial estate rather than a restaurant, in I went.

I sat with this group of runners, and chatted, and suddenly, I felt alive again, at home, and no one was irritating, and I was okay, I did make good choices, and I could do anything or be anything I wanted. It was all going to be all right.

Sometimes the trail seems way too far, the world seems full of aggravating others, and then you simply put on your trail shoes, and run and run and run, and when you are done, the world has put on a brand new coat and looks shiny and beautiful again.

I got home and hugged my child and gave them the present I had bought them, and promised myself to add more joy to my running for the rest of 2018.

“All good,” I replied, bouncing in the centre of the trail on one foot.

I kept trying to hop to the side so the other runners could go past, but I couldn’t put any weight onto my left foot, which had curled up into a tight ball, the toes tucked under, the calf a knot of cramped muscle that wouldn’t unclench. It was hard to hop any distance without falling over.

Finally I succeeded in clearing the trail to let the other runners by, and swore under my breath.

I was 24k into the 28k Two Bays Trail run, and I was definitely on the wrong side of “okay’.

All this effort to get here, and now this. Was this going to be the end of the trail?

My calf had been cramping for a couple of kilometres, but I’d held it at bay with a slightly slower pace, a few Salt Stick capsules, and some GU Gels, along with frequent sips of water. It was hot out on the Two Bays course, and I knew, from the people I saw sitting on the edge of the trail, stretching, suffering, that I wasn’t alone. I’d been offering encouragement to others for a long way now, but in truth, I was just hanging on myself.

That was, until I stupidly kicked a rock in the centre of the trail. That’s when the cramp really hit, like a lighting bolt down the back of my leg. I couldn’t Salt-Stick this one away. I stood on the side of the trail, in pain, and took a deep breath as I quickly reflected on the moments that had gotten me here, to this final decision point.

It had begun with the Facebook lottery for second-chance entries into Two Bays in early December, which I’d won with my terrific (and fool-hardy) typing speed. I had followed this up shortly with my 20k Bayside training run (to prove to myself I could do the race), which culminated in the fatal (to my iPhone) leap into the pool after I’d overheated. From there, I’d completed 16, 22, and 24k long runs in the subsequent weeks out at Mount Dandenong, and along the Surfcoast Trail, fighting to fit training in between Christmas, young children, and a brutal Melbourne heat wave, complete with bushfires and venomous snakes. I’d found local hills in Ocean Grove to do hill repeats, and contemplated carefully whether I’d done enough.

Race morning had come. I drove alone, navigating the Mornington-Peninsula Freeway, second-guessing my exit as always, slightly panicking, and then choosing correctly. I watched the sun rise over Arthur’s Seat, and met my car-park neighbour Philip, who was in from New Zealand for his first Two Bays (he was notably fitter and braver and calmer than me). For him, this was a training run for something even harder coming up.

Sunrise on race morning

I did the usual pre-race circuit between the toilets, running friends, and staring in dismay at the lean, tan, terrifying trail runners I would be sharing the trail with. They all looked fitter, faster, and braver than me, and all seemed to be sharing high-fives with multiple friends and family. I felt a bit alone, so was delighted when I met up with a few Dandenongs Trail Runners friends (Andrea, Sharee and Tami, as well as a few others).

The start came soon. I forgot to get really nervous and simply began running. The uphill road section was a pleasant surprise, as I’d remembered it as steeper than it was in reality.

I’d love to give a detailed account of the race, section by section, complete with views, but that would make for dull reading, and I was too busy not tripping over rocks and tree roots and other trail runners to notice that much. Funny – I’d decided I was going to run slowly and notice every detail. In reality, I bolted as fast as I could, and was completely focused on time, nutrition, cramps and simply running. Oh, and in getting passed and passing the same four or five runners throughout the entire race (‘m great uphill and cowardly downhill).

Two moments stand out for me:

A small sign at the bottom on the stairs about 25k in that read, “And she’s buying…”. In my utter exhaustion, it took me several seconds to complete that sentence, but when I did, I laughed out loud, and sang Stairway to Heaven all the way to the top. Utter bliss.

The moment when the sea came into view near Cape Schanck. I was waiting for this, having recalled that moment from my first Two Bays. It was even more glorious this time. The grass was a dry yellow as far as I could see, yet in the distance, the sea was the bluest of blues. Small rock formations were visible, white foamy waves crashing into them. It reminded me of running in Hong Kong, on isolated trails where suddenly the world opens up and you realise the absolute beauty of the place. And then I thought, I bet this would be a great spot for a grassfire to strike, and ran faster.

I didn’t stop for a photo. I contemplated it, then kept running.

Oh, and then there was the calf cramp.

Let me take you back to that moment, where I’d been hopping on one foot, and wondering if I was going to make it to the finish line.

There I was 24k in, wondering if my run was over. Would all that work be for nothing?

My mind went back in time, to my first ever Adventure Race on Lamma Island in Hong Kong. I was running on coastal rocks and my foot had done a similar thing, cramped into a tiny, painful ball. Then, the only way home was to keep running. So I did. I remembered the foot opened back up eventually.

So here on the Two Bays Trail, I gently placed weight on my foot, swore, took a few walking steps, then a few more. A minute or two went by, and I began jogging. The foot, true to form, released, as did my calf.

Knowing I was okay was delightful. But I was still tentative. I held back on the pace. All I wanted was to complete this race, to get to the finish line which had eluded me the last two years. And I wanted to get there uninjured.

Several trail runners passed me. I kept going. The kilometres didn’t melt away. We were in some sort of parallel universe where a kilometre was ten times as long as expected. We ran on and on.

Until suddenly someone shouted my name, and someone else shouted, it’s only 200 metres to the finish line. We ran a little faster, a bit taller, and then the arch appeared. I didn’t sprint. I’d used up all my sprinting points already, just getting there. But I did a solid run across that finish line, completely finished.

The finishers medal hung heavy on my neck as I found a few friends to trade trail stories with. We sipped at lemonade and coca-cola, ate apples, and let the sweat dry. We were dirty, far dirtier than I realised — my legs were almost black with dirt, and some of my friends shared face-planting stories that we all related to.

I couldn’t bring myself to leave right away, and went to stare out at the sea from the high viewpoint behind the race finish.

Views from Cape Schack

I had done it. Against the odds. Escaped uninjured. Sharee took my photo and we talked of our lives. I smiled with all my smile muscles for the first time in weeks. We’d done it!

Delight!

It was only in the week that followed that the reports of snakes along the trail reminded me of the other memorable moment during the race. The one where I was sure I saw something move on the ground just where I was about to plant my left foot. I’d let out a thin scream, jolted to the side, and landed ahead of the spot. I hadn’t looked back.

I don’t know whether it was a trick of the light or of my vision, or whether I had a very lucky escape.

And just like that it was over.

All the stress and angst, the worry, the thrill and the glory.

But I didn’t have time for post-race depression.

The 21k Roller Coaster Run was only six weeks away.

Training for the Roller Coaster Run at Mount Dandenong

(and now, as at this writing, it is just about two weeks off).

My focus was on recovery, and returning to training to be able to complete this next awesome event on my trail calendar.

Thanks for the memories Two Bays. I hope my legs have truly absorbed Arthur’s Seat in time for Mount Dandenong!

post-race celebration

(The eagle and the fairy-wren? I forgot to mention them. They were sitting on the side of the trail during my race training, my totem bird and the feathery mascot for the Two Bays Trail Run. I wanted to believe at the time it meant something. But maybe I’d just been out trail running in the hot sun for too long.)

I was nervous. To be honest, I was frightened. It was nearly dusk, and I’d gone further along this trail than I’d ever gone before. The summer crowds had thinned, and in this, the final kilometre of my outbound journey, I had seen no one at all.

Worse still, the terrain had changed dramatically, becoming a narrow single-track, bordered on both sides by scrubland, with low grass and dead-looking bushes. It was hot. And it was nearly dusk.

And it was snake season.

I continued onwards.

I started suddenly, jumping up in the air and to the side, with a shout of fear – a small lizard was on the track right next to me, but I had mistaken it for a snake.

I took a deep breath and coached myself to calm down. Soon, the narrow track came to an end by a shoe-cleaning station, and I dutifully scraped down my trail runners, and studied the four-way intersection. My way along the Surfcoast Trail was clear, but I made sure to look at it from the return direction, as several of the tracks went onto other areas, and I didn’t want to get confused. I was carrying a phone with solid GPS, but no printed map; I would be able to find my way again if I got lost, but not as easily as with a paper map. So I was careful on this one unfamiliar intersection.

On I went. Towards Ironbark Basin. It must have been named after the thin, lonely trees that had littered the trail with thin strips of bark.

A place for snake, without doubt

They made me edgy.

I ran on. I had only 700 metres before my planned turnaround at 12k, to make the run a 24k roundtrip. I wasn’t going to turn back early, even if I was nervous.

I was breathing too fast. It wasn’t just worry about snakes. There was no one around. I’m a New Yorker; I feel most afraid alone, where there may be people. From the distance, I heard the sound of a group of people, celebrating. They sounded young, and male. I ran faster and, I hoped, more quietly. I was really psyching myself out now.

Finally, my Garmin read the right distance, and I quickly turned back. It was 4:45 pm, plenty of time before dark, but the light had changed. I ran slowly, carefully, watching the earth. I didn’t like the look of things. In my head, I said to myself, if ever there was going to be a snake, this would be the place. But I’d lived here for nearly eight years, and never seen one. That’s what the rational part of me told myself, to keep myself running.

I came to the four-way intersection; I knew the way back and felt slightly better.

The good feeling disappeared as soon as I entered the single-track section (the one bordered too closely on both sides with low grass and small shrubs). I was in shorts, a singlet, ankle socks and trail runners. I felt decidedly vulnerable. My pace slowed to a jog. I had my eyes so wide open they hurt, and the slight imperfection in my vision (I’m missing a bit of vision in my left eye, and see a grey shadow where the world should be) made it worse. Still, it was only a kilometre on this track.

That’s when I saw it.

Stretched out about eight inches onto the trail.

The long, striped back of a Tiger Snake.

I stopped in my tracks.

From my mouth came a whole string of curse words, but no one was there to hear. I stared at the snake, studied it. I couldn’t see its head. It definitely had striped. It was thick in diameter, which made me guess it could be long. But I couldn’t see if it was curled to face the track, or positioned to slide away.

I back-tracked several steps, carefully, keeping my eyes on it. Then I stomped on the ground, expecting the vibrations to send it fleeing into the woods. Except it didn’t move. I muttered my useless curse words again and considered my options.

I could try to sneak by it. I shook my head. It could strike me easily if I scared it. I was all alone here, and Tiger Snake bites could kill. Though I always carry a compression bandage and have studied what to do in case of a bite, it wasn’t worth the risk.

I could back-track and try to find another trail. But I hadn’t been here before, and I’d seen no other tracks that went back the way I wanted to go. That meant bush-bashing and trying to get to a road. Way too scary all alone at dusk.

I could stay right where I was. And wait it out.

My heart was racing. I paced back and forth, unsure of what to do, willing that snake to move. It felt like an eternity. The snake just stayed there.

It hadn’t occurred to me that someone else might come up the trail.

But suddenly, like a vision, a mountain-biker appeared, heading towards me. He would have to ride by the snake to get to me, but there was no way to warn him. I stood in the centre of the track, ten feet away from the snake, and waved him down as he got close to me. He’d already ridden fast by the snake when he got to me. But his face said no; he didn’t want to stop. I saw indecision flicker there, the good-samaritan fighting with the fear of what I was going to say. He slid to a halt, questioning me with his eyes.

“Can you help me?” I said fast. “There’s a snake…”

“Where?”

He looked around with fear in his eyes.

“Back there, behind us. Can you help me get by it? Use your bike?”

Now he really wished he hadn’t stopped.

Brave man, he agreed.

We walked gingerly, side-by-side, away from the scary-snake side. We didn’t speak. When we’d covered maybe twenty feet, and not seen any snake, when I knew that we must have passed where it had been, I shouted in joy, “It’s gone, it’s gone, thank you so much!” I began running again. I was too scared to even look back at him, in case another snake appeared at my feet.

“Thank you,” I shouted again. But I suspected he was long gone.

I still had that last kilometre of single-track to traverse alone. Aloud I said, “if I survive this, I am never, ever, ever coming here again.” I walked rather than ran, with my eyes wide-open, my heart in my throat. It was the longest walk of my life.

When I finally emerged onto the wide, gravel, blessed, populated trail with the sea views and the other people, I could have cried with relief.

People were just going about their picnics and surfing, enjoying a warm Monday evening. I wanted to tell everyone I saw what had happened. I wanted to warn the people out walking their dogs to watch out for snakes, but realised how crazy that would make me sound.

After the snake, still with fear in my eyes. I stopped for a photo to convince myself it was safe.

So I simply ran the 11 kilometres back to my car, with my eyes very wide open, looking out for other snakes.

It was the 4th of January. Two Bays was less than two weeks away.

It was summer. Bushfire-and-snake season in Australia. I had done everything I could do to be ready for the 28k start line.

But the encounter with the Tiger Snake so close to race day left me shaken. This was a race that was well-known for its snakes.

The clock was ticking. I was going to have to commit, one way or another.

My action foretold disaster. Like in horror movies, when the hero says, “I’m just going to check outside (after a strange scream. in the dark. all alone. when there are clowns around).”

I had acted too quickly, without forethought. That’s what happens with Facebook groups. Especially when a race is sold out, and suddenly registrations become available on a first-come first-served basis. At least that’s how I react. Especially when I’m not sure I’m up to the distance.

I’d completed the Marysville Half-Marathon about seven weeks prior to this, and was studying my recovery closely, trying to be wise, trying not to do the same stupid things which had led to injury in previous years. I’d completed the Two Bays 28k race only in 2013, but had signed up and pulled out of both the 2014 and 2015 Two Bays so far, both due to injury. So for 2016, I was checking the Two Bays website periodically, but not signing up. Not yet, I told myself. I’d only done 14k for my long run since Marysville. Nothing hurt, but I was going slowly.

Then one day, I checked the website, and the race had SOLD OUT! What! But I hadn’t decided yet. I scrolled down. There was an option of placing my name on the second- chance list on the Facebook Group page, so I did what any fool runner would do, and typed my name in straight away. I’d be notified if a place became available. So would all the others on the list. The fastest typist would get the spot.

I used to type for a living. In the olden days, when dinosaurs roamed the earth, and people had to type on actual type-writers with perfect accuracy, or type the entire document again from scratch. I took typing speed tests, and aced them. I was not a hunt-and-peck girl. This was one event I could win.

And BOOM, I did.

Scored myself an entry the first week. I cheered aloud, alone in my office. Over lunch, I told my husband the wonderful news, and when I went to teach, I shared my delight with the members of my BodyPump class. They all looked at me with the same dumb-founded expressions, and some even repeated my words back to me: you said you weren’t going to do that race, you were going to train to get stronger and faster. Remember? Do a fast 10k? That’s what you said.

Yes, but…

Oh the error of my ways. I knew they were right – they were speaking my own words – but I had to prove they were wrong. Or I was a complete moron who simply followed the herd.

So I went out for a long training run in the very hot sun, my longest since Marysville, 20k along the Bayside Coastal Track on 4 December. I wore my Hippy-Chick running belt to hold my valuables, because I didn’t want to wear a big pack in the heat. I also wore my Two Bays singlet I’d bought for the 2015 race. Because it seemed fitting if I was going to do this.

And off I ran. It was 35 degrees, and it was a tough run, but I made it. I was so overheated when I got home, that I went straight to the back and leapt into the swimming pool fully clothed, stopping only long enough to take off my runners and my Garmin. The relief was enormous.

I swam a few laps, floated on my back, contemplated the distance I had run, and whether it was far enough assure a 28k race. My husband gave me “the look”, the one he always gave me when I did idiotic things, which is too often than I’d like to admit, and anyway, I call it pushing the boundaries.

I climbed out of the pool, and went to get a towel from the line, and to hang up my wet running clothes.

You’ll have seen this coming long before I did. As I stripped off the Two Bays singlet and went to hang it on the line, I noticed with horror that I was still wearing my Hippy Chick running belt. Which contained my house keys, my $50 in emergency taxi money. And my iPhone.

And no, it wasn’t waterproof.

Did it presage disaster, this rash jumping into the pool with my phone?

Or was it something I would overcome and laugh about as I danced across the 2016 Two Bays finish line? Was it the path to a new phone that I wanted anyway, or confirmation that I was a complete and utter idiot?